Conscience of the Beagle (8 page)

I‘M PACKING
when
a change in the room’s light makes me turn. Vanderslice is standing in my Wall. He’s stopped at an outside pay phone. Behind him is a thicket of saplings. And in the distance, a park. Children are playing there.

His smile is charming and bewildered. “Why do you want to leave the hotel?”

The muscles in my back knot. High-pitched laughter from the receiver makes me flinch. Dots of color move across a green field: children chasing a ball.

“Major? I have good reason to suspect you’re in danger.”

Vanderslice is too hard to look at. I watch the park, instead. There’s something else there, taller than the children. And still. Rounded shape. A rabbit. A bot rabbit with a waistcoat and top hat.

“You went to the south side last night and spoke to Paulie’s widow.” Vanderslice’s face is friendly, but menace has crept into his tone. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

Did he have me followed? Did he question her? I try to swallow, but my throat is tight. “Mrs. Hendrix? She’s a closemouthed bitch.”

A smile. “Yes. You’re absolutely right. That’s the Tal I know.”

“I didn’t find out much.”

Blood-curdling scream. So high and clear and sudden it makes me start. No. The children. Just playing. Did they beat Mrs. Hendrix? Do they interrogate that way?

His expression is chagrined. “Secret police. Sounds so sinister, doesn’t it?”

The rabbit chases a shrieking child. All round body. All creamy pink fur. Sinister. Is she still alive?

“Okay.” Vanderslice shrugs. “All right. So some of the God’s Warriors go undercover. Undercover doesn’t automatically mean bad. In fact, I keep a contingent around the hotel just to make sure you’re safe. So you need to stay put. Unless I’m with you. If you go out alone, who knows what could happen?”

I force myself to relax. “How did you find out we’re leaving? Did the net pick up on it? Are our rooms bugged? That’s it, isn’t it? Our rooms are bugged. I thought so. If you listen long enough we’ll eventually tell you who the perp is.” Laughingly now. Cop-to-cop. Does my voice shake? “Fuck you for a lazy bastard, Vanderslice. I’m not carrying you up the Glory Road on my shoulders.”

“Okay. Fair enough. Together, all right? We’ll work together. It’s just that you were going to shut me out, Major. And I couldn’t have that.”

I return to my packing so he can’t read terror in my face.

“I’ll bet you’ve been reading old copies of
Godly Science.
That what happened, Major? And you must suspect me now. Look, if that’s what this is about, I need to talk to you privately. I can be over there in ten minutes.”

I can’t turn around. Not even to look at the rabbit. Sinister. He’ll see the fear in me. The pretense of indifference is so hard. “Don’t bother. We’ll be gone by then.”

“Oh, come on. What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like I scare you to death.”

I whirl. Face him. So difficult. “You lied to me. That pisses me off.”

Vanderslice brings his wrist up fast and stares at the face of what I have assumed is a watch. Not a watch at all. That has to be a delayed-read voice stress analyzer. Now Vanderslice realizes I’m lying, too.

“What else did she tell you?” He isn’t smiling anymore.

He killed her. God. I know he killed her. My fault. Mine. You’ll get us all killed, Szabo told me.

But Vanderslice is the one who looks scared. I don’t understand. “Wait a minute. Just . . . just stay there, Major. Please. Just stay there for fifteen minutes. I want to explain.”

He severs the connection. Darkness swallows the children, the rabbit.

Fifteen minutes. I shove my suitcase closed and dart out the door. I’m out of breath when I reach Beagle’s room. “Aren’t you packed?”

“Yes. I was
—”

“Let’s go now. The place is rotten with undercover God’s Warriors and Vanderslice is on his way.”

Beagle’s calm. Too calm. “Fine, Major. I understand. I won’t be a minute.”

He steps into his room. I run to Arne’s door. To Szabo’s.

“Let’s go!”

By the time they emerge, Beagle is waiting with his suitcase. I check the time. Nearly time. Five minutes gone. Another minute lost waiting for the lift to come.

In
the lobby, the hotel clerk tries to head us off. “Wait. You’re leaving? You can’t be leaving! Check-out time’s past. But that’s all right. I suppose that’s all right. Please, sir. Management will want to know: Why are you leaving like this? Was something not to your satisfaction? Just tell us. The Hebron Crossroads always tries to make things right.”

We stride out the door into the bright noon sun. No one but the hotel clerk makes a move to stop us.

“Your bags!” he says, dismayed. “You should have called a bot for the bags. We have bots for that!”

A bus is waiting in the circular drive. I climb into it and fling my suitcase into the overhead compartment. “Szabo. Give it the address.”

Szabo sounds perplexed. “I don’t understand what’s happening here. Why you’re so upset . . .”

“The address, damn it! Now!”

“Thirty four sixteen Mount of Olives.”

As the bus jerks forward, I look out the window. There’s a group of shoppers walking to and fro on the other side of the street. Brightly dressed women. Bright as the children. And something taller. Something still.

“Stop!” I gasp. “Bus! Stop!” The bus stands on its brakes.

I point, and Reece turns away. Just the back of his head now. Just the flash of his auburn hair in the sun. “That man!” I shout. “Don’t you see that man?”

Reece trots into a nearby alley.

Beagle leaps off the bus and sprints for the opposite sidewalk. I run after. Beside me, cabs and cars screech to a stop. I push through a gaggle of onlookers. The entire planet of Tennyson seems to grind to a halt.

Ahead. The other end of the alley. A flash of brown as Beagle darts into sunlight and disappears around a corner. Feet pounding. Breath in whoops. I stagger around the edge of a building and run headlong into Beagle’s back.

He whirls, his face contorted. “I lost him! Too many fucking people!”

We’ve stopped traffic here, too. In the open-air market a crowd of shoppers raise their heads at the profanity.

I can’t catch my breath. Comets spark through my vision. Black flowers blossom like the onset of night.

“Major? You all right?”

“Tired.”

He puts a steadying hand on my arm and I’m too exhausted to fling it off. “Rest a minute,” he says. “Your pulse rate’s through the roof.”

“You saw him, then? You saw him?”

“I saw your reaction. Saw him run. He’s good. Left a perfect infrared trail down the alley, but he knew where he was going. There’s too much walk-friction here to single out his steps. You know him, don’t you?”

I nod. Close my eyes. Sparklers, but fewer now.

“From Earth? The one from Colonial Security?”

I don’t understand why I say it. Don’t understand how I can be so sure. “He’s the HFCS captain.”

“The planet of Tennyson was founded over one hundred and fifty years ago by Harold and Mimi Tennyson of Earth . . .”

I open my eyes. A girl in a frilly blue dress is leaning toward me.

“What’s the holo for?” Beagle asks.

I can’t help laughing. When I laugh, I cough. “She’s saving your soul. And Marvin’s not even sure you have one. Tell her you’re not interested and she’ll go away.”

Beagle tries, but the girl ignores him.

“. . . a place where they would be free . . .”

She knows. She recognizes Beagle as a robot. “Get out of here,” I tell her and she vanishes. “Beagle? I saw a holo like that the other morning. They approach humans without EPATs. Churches are meticulous about visitor records. What if . . .”

Beagle’s face lights up. “The HFCS guy wouldn’t have an EPAT. Jesus fucking Christ! We can nail him!” He’s still smiling when a God’s Warrior walks up and writes him a ticket for public profanity.

IT’S A
slow
walk back. On the broad avenue car radars see us coming and have time for leisurely stops. I look through the windshields. The Tennysonians aren’t hostile to our jaywalking. They’re polite. They’re patient. They’re so damned bored.

On the island that separates the eastbound from westbound lanes, I stop.

“Still tired?” Beagle asks.

“Just a minute.” I lean over and prop my hands on my thighs.

He couldn’t be Reece. Still, I know why he wears that face. MedAltered. HF can’t control me, so they want to break me down. A little reminder: You’re not that smart. Not as smart as you think.

Trouble-maker.

Iconoclast.

They wouldn’t promote me, but I was too successful to bust. Not like Arne. I was more subtle than Arne. And not so smart after all.

The time. Twenty-five minutes. By the front of the hotel sits Vanderslice’s limo. What does he have to do with this? I know he’s already on the bus, talking to Arne. Laughing with Szabo. Laughing at me. Putting them at ease. Major’s nervous, isn’t he? Such a nervous man . . .

“Break in the traffic,” Beagle says.

I straighten. The bus is a purple bread loaf sitting at the mouth of the drive. Soft rounded corners like the rabbit.

“You sure you’re okay, Major?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been up all night. You’re probably . . .”

“I’m fine.”

I take a step. Ahead, a blue cab pulls around Vanderslice’s limo. It pauses behind the bus, unable to clear the drive. The bus’s program notices the cab. It inches forward. Wheels swivel right and . . .

world flashes yellow. I’m a man of magic
—
sailing backward in utter silence. By my out-flung hand a cab powers down and . . .

snapshot of pale balloon face through the windshield. Not bored anymore. Wide eyes. Open mouth. Picture-perfect amazement. My right arm smacks the Permacrete. Something in my side snaps and . . .

look. Oh, look. Swarms of bright comets and bursting black stars.

. . . wait.

Wait a minute.

I don’t understand this.

Thought I saw Reece. And now . . . inches away, wheels of a green cab.

What happened? I try to sit up. Balloon face peers at me. A stranger. Open-mouthed. Alarmed.

Beagle. Beagle’s here, too. Why am I in the street? Why does he look so frightened? He leans so close I see the moonscape topography of his cheeks.

His lips move. In my ears an electronic buzz. I can’t hear. Damn. Someone turn that down. Pounding agony above my temple. Stabbing pain in my side. Was I knifed?

Sting at my thigh. I put my hand there. Pumping, sticky warmth. I sit up. He tried to kill me, I say, but I can’t hear my own voice.

My side hurts. Gummy red on my leg. My palm is painted with it. But farther away. Brighter than that. In front of the hotel a bus is burning.

Did Beagle ask a minute ago if I was tired? I think I am now. Very sleepy. My eyelids droop. So bright. Look, I whisper. Orange flames. Black skeleton of a safety cage. Stench of burning rubber.

More people. All looking. Bots arc streams of water into the flames. White clouds billow. A mound of blue metal melts like warm chocolate.

The buzzing is louder. People staring and I wish they’d stop. Pushy friendliness. Tennysonians. Vanderslice was here a moment ago, wasn’t he? Is Mrs. Hendrix all right?

Beagle lays me gently on the pavement. A woman behind him is crying. Lights coming. Red and blue. In strobes.

Beagle looks so worried. That sad-hound face. I close my eyes. The hum in my ears muffles. The pain in my side eases. I remember dreaming about children. A rabbit. Did Reece . . .

Easier than I ever imagined. Easiest, this way. Odd. I always knew I’d be murdered. Funny. I always thought dying would be hard.

A LOUD
humming.
I open my eyes. White room. Bright lights. Beagle’s standing by the bed. His mouth moves.

I gingerly feel around the lump on my head. Touch the Slim Brace around my chest. Put a hand down. On the inside of my thigh, the slick of a surgiclean bandage.

Beagle holds up a Sheet. Across it is written: CAN YOU HEAR ME?

He mouths the words.

No. I shake my head. No.

He erases, writes: THE DOCTOR THINKS THE DEAFNESS IS TEMPORARY.

Better tomorrow. All better, Lila used to say when I’d come home scraped and bruised. And she’d bandage me. Cool kiss on the forehead. Like I was a child. Did she ever want
—
ever need
—
children?

My body aches. I close my eyes and drift. Something punches me lightly in the stomach. Beagle leaning over. His lips form: Major?

The burning bus.

Arne? I ask. I can’t hear myself. Szabo? I hope I’ve asked it right.

I must have, because Beagle’s cheeks twitch.

We were set up. But who did it? Marvin. Had to be Marvin. Because now Vanderslice, too, is . . .

Marvin was afraid of him, wasn’t he? And Vanderslice brought us here without permission. Trying to save himself? Stupid. Stupid. I left the hotel too quickly. Should have waited to hear what Vanderslice was going to say. He was frightened.

Oh, God. For a moment there
—
what did he know?
—
he was so frightened.

But I wasn’t strong enough for Vanderslice. Not strong enough for the team. My fault. Szabo knew. He was psychic, wasn’t he? Knew I was the weak link.

A doctor bustles through the door. Mouth moving at Beagle. Quick mouth. Officious mouth. Brusque orders. A shake of his head and Beagle leaves the room.

The doctor holds something cold to my right ear. Then shoves my cheek into the pillow and holds it to the left. I look out the open door. In
the hall Beagle’s broad back eclipses someone. Who? They’re talking. The shorter, smaller someone takes a nonchalant step to the side.

Half of him now. Hand shoved into the pocket of an expensive Slickstone suit. An extravagant gold band around the wrist. Over Beagle’s brown-uniformed shoulder, a glimpse of curly chestnut hair.

I push the doctor’s hand away. Push it again. He’s startled. I sit up and he tries to stop me. I struggle and he lets me go. When my feet hit the floor my knees try to buckle. A tug at my arm. The doctor. His lips flap angrily. Holding onto the bedpost, the doorjamb, the wall, I wobble out the door.

Now. Peering past Beagle’s bulk. Unlined face. Wide green eyes.

Vanderslice!

I know I’ve screamed because Beagle whirls. Surprised. Nurses at a station turn, mouths agape.

You fucking murderer!

Beagle waves his arm like he’s directing my words to a safe place down the hall.

I’ll get you for this!

Beagle comes up, puts his hands on my shoulders. Tries to push me into the room. I shove back. But I’m not strong enough. I never was.

I know what you did!

But I’m not sure. They’re all lying. They have to be. Beagle too? What if I hadn’t seen Reece? Hadn’t run . . .

My throat convulses. Did I make a sound? Beagle throws his arms around my shoulders. Stop me. For Christ’s sake stop me. I killed them all. Szabo knew that. Everyone, even HF knew.

My throat convulses again. I can’t hear the noise I make. But they do. They all hear it. Nurses and doctors are flashfrozen. Vanderslice looks at the carpet.

Then a door down the hall opens. A dead man walks out.

Szabo’s blue eyes are wide. His beard, his balding head, are streaked with soot. I see golden afternoon sunlight streaming across the carpet between us. A padded chair lounging against the wall casually as a man waiting on his wife. The red ball in its seat that some child has forgotten.

Beagle lets me go. Stylus in one hand. Sheet in the other.

ARNE. JUST ARNE, he writes.

Just Arne. It’s all right. Nothing to worry about. No one, really. Just Arne. I let Beagle steer me to bed.